Chiaroscuro
by bugsfic
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is in custody.
1. Chapter 1

_This story will be posted in two parts; this section with 5 chapters and the next significantly longer. The stories are based primarily on two films' canon, Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal, although I snag a detail or two from the books. The stories are set post-Hannibal, and as much as I loathe to call anything a fix-it fic, I found Thomas Harris' choices unrewarding for this fan of Clarice Starling. I actually started this just as Hannibal Rising came out and that really blocked what I wanted to do. Finally, I have slapped down my inner canon whore, made the choice to just use the two films as my fanon, and have moved forward. _

_Warning: If you're looking for a Starling/Lecter 'ship', I doubt this fic will be it. I've been fascinated by their relationship since first seeing Silence of the Lambs in in 1991 but I find it conflicted and complex, not rose petal strewn beds and gentle laughter over wine. Although that may happen too. (These author's notes are no help at all, are they?)_

Chapter One:

Location-Fairfax County Jail: Fairfax, Virginia

April 4, 2001

"Do not touch the prisoner, or allow him to touch you," the perspiring sheriff's deputy warned. "If he tries to give you anything, do not accept it. Do you understand?"

Trying not to fixate on the dark stains under the squat man's armpits, Shirley Russell nodded impatiently, breathing through her mouth against the associated odor.

"Ma'am?" he prompted.

"Yes, sir, I get you," Russell said. "Now can I see my client?"

He demanded to search her briefcase. Shifting from foot to foot, Russell handed over the worn leather case. She'd been up most of the night reviewing files. Now she was running on eleven cups of coffee flavored with nebulous fear. When she'd agreed to defend Hannibal Lecter, it had been with only a vague knowledge of his crimes. Her normal clients were the mundane and overlooked, not admitted serial killers whose yearly wine bills cost more than her car.

Doctor Lecter had refused to hire an attorney or even respond to the charges against him. When the bank accounts associated with the credit cards in his wallet were checked, they contained no funds. Technically indigent, he was finally assigned a public defender.

The lawyer, a nervous young man in his first year, 'fell ill' before the preliminary hearing. A call had gone out to the practices willing to take pro bono cases. Harry Shriner, head of the Justice for All Foundation, saw this as an important opportunity. If the Foundation defended the infamous Lecter against the death penalty, their credo-all life was sacred and deserved defense-would be played out nightly on the cable news shows.

Harry had shown up the night before as Shirley and her husband, fellow attorney Abe Leonard, were finishing supper. Pushing clear a spot on their cluttered dining room table, he thumped down the stack of files. After Harry had explained his mission, Abe had immediately offered to head the case. Russell was touched by her husband's bout of gallantry, but she had said, "No, it's got to be a woman, and a woman like me."

As the guard's fat white fingers left grease stains on her papers, Shirley slipped her right foot loose from its broken down pump. Her shoes were killing her. She really needed to find some time to get a new pair, and time to get her untidy long hair cut and colored, and some time for-but there was never time. She resented this particular situation and the time it would consume, although on the intellectual level, she understood Harry's objectives for accepting the assignment.

The name 'Hannibal Lecter' was familiar, in the way Harry Houdini's was; she knew it, she knew why she knew it, and that was about it. She didn't spend much time concerning herself with nefarious murderers. There were too many painfully ordinary cases that needed her attention: women behind bars for killing their abusive husbands, or young black men railroaded for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She had barely registered the news that Lecter had been captured in the most ironic of manners, discovered as an unconscious John Doe after being blindsided by a drunk driver in Florida. As soon as he had recovered from his injuries, he was immediately extradited to Virginia for the murder of Paul Krendler.

"The Justice Department obviously chose to turn him over a Virginia county circuit court so he'll get the death penalty," Abe had said with disgust as he reviewed the files. "Convicted in a Fed court, he'd just end up in a Super Max prison for life." He had tossed aside the folder. "Nope, they want him to fry and Jim Gilmore will get another feather in his cap; the most feared man in the world killed."

"Okay," said the guard, snapping shut the briefcase, and Shirley Russell prepared to meet her newest client-alone. She followed the waddling man to a reinforced door. It swung open and she entered the cool cell, bright from light bouncing off the steel-plated walls. Shirley had wondered how a county jail thought it could hold one of the most dangerous men in the world,and now she saw.

In the center of the room, a heavy steel straight-backed chair on locked wheels held the prisoner, his back to the doorway. His ankles, wrists and neck were fastened snugly to the chair by padded metal bands. A motor under the seat breathed, keeping even pressure in cuffs built into the restraints. Any movement was countered and Lecter was held firmly yet without injury.

The guard gave her one more warning, "He doesn't have much range of movement, but he'll try to bite if you get close; remember," and the first sound she heard from her client was a rich, deep chuckle.

A sink and seatless toilet hung on the wall and a mattress, draped with a blanket, lay on the floor. She walked on numb legs towards the only other seat in the room, an empty folding chair, coming closer to Lecter with each step.

His lank hair, the color of watered-down urine from a color rinse, was combed close to his head. His thick neck, widely-collared like a pit bull's, rose out of broad shoulders. She knew he had been a psychiatrist and cultured member of society with a capital 'S', but from the back, he looked like one of her sullen thug defendants, hulking and ready for explosion.

She continued past him and sank onto her chair. They looked each other over. She'd seen his photograph in the files, but no one looks good in a psych ward mug shot. From this view, he was compact and poised, with large still hands and feet and a triangular, pursed mouth. Somehow, she'd expected his mouth to be wide with large teeth...a voice whispered at the back of her mind, _Better to eat you with, my dear. _She stifled a hysterical laugh by gulping for air.

Only a slight pink line remained from his head injury, and that was being swallowed back into his sallow forehead. Dressed in white shirt and pants, with his monochromatic skin, he blended into the walls. She'd met a few professional con men and they all looked like this: blank.

Then his hooded lids lifted and she was caught in the snake's gaze. His eyes were blue, a shade as clear and lovely as the glaze on her mother's best china. Those eyes roamed quickly over her, as though he were flipping through a book to see if it were worth reading. His words dropped out like pearls falling from a broken strand: "I won't be defended by a woman with feet like those of a pig's trotters."

She controlled the urge to tuck her offensive appendages under the chair. "Well, you're a right little fucker, aren't you?" she said.

He cast his gaze away in dismay. "And another Southerner. Haven't all you people been shoved up into the hills, replaced by Yuppie carpetbaggers?"

"There's a few of us left." She snapped her briefcase open. "There's not much time, Dr. Lecter. We need to start immediately."

"There's no need for your services. I choose to ignore the charges against me."

"I'm here to tell you, that tactic ain't gonna work." She aggressively ground her words out with a harsh dialect and enjoyed his repulsion. "They got you over a barrel, my good man. They gonna fry you."

"Don't I have the option of the needle in Virginia?" He tried to move his arms and was restrained. "Then again, with this chair, all they'd have to do is plug me in, and I shall be fried like one of your tasty carnival treats."

"I'm being figurative, hoping to get you to see the gravity of your situation." He remained impassive. She hated getting a sociopathic defendant. Experience had taught her these made the worse clients. "They're not gonna play along with your games this time, Doctor. They gonna parade you around like a prize pony. You've killed one of their own-"

"Aren't you supposed to assume my innocence?"

"You gonna claim self-defense?"

He smiled and she found it a very nice one that warmed those cool eyes. "This pony won't prance, regardless of the tune," he murmured.

"I know the state prosecutor and he's not one to waste his time. He's got political aspirations-"

"So did Paul."

She ignored his interruption. "He took this case because he was certain of victory and more to the point, a guaranteed spot on the evening news. None of this bodes well for you."

"They can't force me to face the charges."

"They can if they've got the right judge, and they've made sure they have that."

"I have only experienced death as the provider," he said, "it may be interesting to try it as the recipient."

"Don't you have anything...anyone, to fight for?"

"It would appear not," he said, pursing his mouth again and Russell decided that expression was going to become very annoying before this case ended.

"We're looking at the arraignment to enter a plea in three days," she said, "you won't need to be present for that, which may be for the best, if they're gonna keep you in that chair-" She flipped through her files. "We'll enter an insanity plea, as your attorney has in the past. The hard part will be finding some psychologists willing to testify...or rather, finding one you're willing to speak with-"

"Who's on my case from the FBI?" he asked casually, and the air suddenly hummed off the steel walls.

Russell had done a lot of reading last night. "Clarice Starling's not working on this; she's going to be the prosecution's number one witness-" and that's as far as she got before he exploded.

He became large, very large, struggling. "I will not allow her to testify." His statement was insane on so many levels. Russell, normally verbose, was struck dumb as he ranted on. "She cannot be put on the stand." Only then did she realize that he'd never raised his voice at all.

As the doctor thrashed against his restraints, she stumbled forward, almost grabbing his arm, but stopped herself. She said in a rush: "I wish the defense could eliminate any witness they deem, but it doesn't work that way, particularly when they're government employees."

Somehow, her words calmed him. He regained his breath immediately. "She's not an employee; she's a corpse left hanging on the gallows as a warning to those who come next. And her...Watch how she prostrates daily before the altar of her shame."

"I really can't say," Russell heard some lame Southern woman say and realized it was she. She tried again, but got no further than, "Doctor-" before running out of steam. He breathed through his nose like a bull and she noted all the deep crevices that crisscrossed his strong features. Somewhere in life, he'd been cut into a thousand pieces and carefully put back together.

"She won't lie, Mrs. Russell, certainly not for me and sadly, not even for herself. Once that pack of drooling dogs knows the truth, they'll leap upon her. Maybe it'll be a drug raid gone wrong, or a shadowy alley-which figure is the suspect? Clarice Starling will die and they'll lap up her blood with relish."

He whispered, "I won't allow it," and she believed him.

His eyes were on her again, and his low voice washed over her. She stumbled back to her chair, but he remained close. She had sudden insight carried with self-revulsion: Intimidation could be sensual, even in the case of a cannibal. "Mrs. Russell, you shall speak with Clarice," he said. "Express my concerns. Make her see that for once, she must back down."

"I don't know how-"

"You can," he urged. "I'm sure you can do it."

"I need to speak with her anyway."

"Yes," he said. "Speak to her."

Rapping on the heavy door made Russell jump but Lecter was now calm. "I will allow you to defend me if you speak to Clarice."

"Are you trying to bribe me, Dr. Lecter?"

"No, I'm offering you a deal," he said with a gentle smile. "You need this case and you have something I need; the ability to communicate with Clarice." Without answering, Shirley collected her briefcase, muttered a garbled parting, and left, yearning for the heat of her stuffy car.

Abe was waiting right inside their front door, and asked how things went in his high, tense, New York accent. Burying her flushed face in his sweatered chest, she said, "Pretty good, all things considered."

"I've made supper. Kick off your shoes, drop your bags-" He tugged her into the living room and gently pushed her onto the sofa. "All the news channels have been going crazy. There's Lecter _and_ the Miguel Torres trial. They don't know which way to turn."

On the television, old footage played of blood-splattered bodies. The newscaster explained, "Torres was spirited into the United States three months ago to stand trial for ordering the 1999 death of DEA officer Blaine Hollis, but he's also believed to have killed scores as a leader of the Marian drug cartel."

Sipping the whiskey Abe gave her, Shirley said, "Now which is the real monster? There's a man who kills countless folks every day through drug-trafficking. He's ordered hundreds, even thousands of deaths, and Lecter done, what, a dozen? Eighteen, I think, is the last count. Nineteen?" She frowned. She better figure that number out before the trial.

Abe balanced on the couch arm. "Uh, oh, sounds like your client's turned you to the dark side after just one meeting." His tone was light, but he rubbed the back of her neck with a supportive hand.

"Nah, not this good Baptist. But somehow...it seems worse to kill someone for money than being driven by some psychological disturbance."

"You believe Lecter's disturbed?" he asked.

She thought on it. She'd represented plenty of mentally ill clients. She copped out with, "I'm going for the insanity defense," and her husband let it go with a chuckle. "What's the other option?" she asked, "he's the devil?"

Abe snatched up the remote and turned the volume higher. "Oh, this is the best part."

Earlier in the day, John Ashcroft had given a press conference, mainly to crow about the Torres capture. Watching the re-broadcast, Russell could see that she wasn't playing in Single-A ball anymore. After covering the Torres case, the dour-faced official was asked about Lecter. Pursing his mouth, eerily similar to the doctor, he said, "This sort of depravity will be punished. Unspeakable acts performed on a government servant, simply for the crime of giving news conferences."

"Turn that thing off, Abe," Russell said. "I don't want to lose my appetite."

As they sat at the table, Abe said, "I can't believe they're going to have two high profile cases at the county courthouse at the same time. I know Ashcroft and Scott like the theater of the absurd, but this is crazy."

Before Shirley could respond, their youngest son, Casper, came home and joined them for dinner. As his parents pestered him rapid fire about coming home late from school, he stuffed an entire roll into his mouth and it slipped through his long neck like a deer into a python.

He ignored their grilling. "The weirdest thing happened at school," he told them. "Some kid, only I don't think he really was a teenager-I hadn't seen him on campus before-tried to give me money to steal stuff out of your files about that Lecter guy."

"What?" exclaimed Shirley and Abe in unison.

"Yeah, he said some newspaper would pay a lot of money for dirt on the trial," the boy said, enjoying the dramatic attention. He chugged down milk before giving them the most amazing news. "And, he said, if Mom can get a picture of Lecter in his cell, $100,000."

"Wow, there's our retirement fund," his father said.

"Abe!" Shirley scolded and he shrugged.

"But he said that deal's only available for a day or two," Casper told them.

"I bet that sweaty guard's trying to figure out how to hide his Instamatic down in his boxer shorts at this moment," she said.

"This is getting crazy and it's only day one," noted Abe.

Thumping her briefcase up by her plate, Shirley said: "What were you saying about the theater of the absurd? I better get to work."

~end Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

The encounter with Lecter made Russell intensely curious to meet Agent Starling. Once again, she only had some slight knowledge of the FBI agent's role in the Lecter cases.

One of Abe's shameful habits was reading trashy supermarket tabloids. He kept them in his office desk, but Russell still saw them while unloading the grocery bags and shook her head in disbelief. From the bizarre, manipulated cover photos, she knew there were plenty of speculation about the Lecter/Starling relationship, and as she looked through the file for Krendler's death, she understood why.

The slim woman in the harsh black and white crime scene photographs appeared unfazed. Russell doubted she would have looked that collected after being shot, operated on in a bedroom, drugged and witnessing a man eat his own brains before fighting it out with a serial killer. Then again, she wouldn't have been able to pull that dress off either, at least not since 1974.

When Clarice Starling walked through the door into Russell's office, the attorney was surprised that any street-hardened agent would exude fragile beauty, then she saw it wasn't delicacy but exhaustion that made the young woman's skin translucent and her gray eyes drowning pools. Starling's grip was strong in her handshake, though.

Russell was supposed to be asking the this experienced investigator for background on Lecter, but she had other motives. Shirley had squeezed her sources in the prosecutor's office. She plunged right in.

"I'm not sure how much information you've been given about the prosecutor's current case-"

"None. I no longer work in Behavioral Sciences. I've been removed from any Lecter investigation."

"I see," Russell said, trailing her voice off in hope of bringing forth some confessional girl talk. The woman sitting across from her desk waited quietly, hands folded in her lap.

Southern women fall into two groupings: weedy fretters who take the weight of the world on their thin shoulders, and the heavy-set ones who take the weight with their bulk. Clarice Starling was the former, and Shirley fought daily at the local Curves to keep from becoming the later.

"They'd going for the death penalty, you know," Shirley said.

"He'll be found insane."

"Not this time, Agent Starling."

That brought a response. Clarice's eyes widened and her breath rasped in the claustrophobic office. Russell leaned forward to press her point. "They're going to present a very different scenario for consideration, and frankly, they've got the evidence to back it up."

"What?" Clarice whispered.

"They're going to say that Doctor Lecter was so enraged by Krendler's treatment of you, his love-" Russell was surprised that this brought no reaction from the young woman. "-That he viciously murdered him. Or that he was consumed by jealousy over a younger, attractive man. They've got witness statements claiming that you'd had an affair with Krendler-"

"That's not true!" insisted Starling. "Paul propositioned me and I put him off!"

"Neither here nor there," said Shirley crisply. "All they need to do is put that seed in the jury's minds."

She leaned across her desk. "The prosecution want to take this out the realm of the fantastical and make it a squalid lovers' quarrel. Emotional responses for Lecter, Agent Starling, not the actions of a sociopath."

Starling's slender shoulders rose in an affected shrug. "So much tabloid trash. It's ridiculous-"

"I'm looking at the evidence list, Agent Starling. Your clothing that evening Krendler was killed-"

"He-"

Brutal, Russell ran her over. "He ordered that gown from a Milan designer a week before murdering Pazzi and leaving Italy. Not only that, but he gave your measurements for alterations. 'My wife is wider through the hips than your models,' the sales clerk remembers him saying with great affection."

"I never knew-"

"They pulled you off the division that night, didn't they? You never saw the results of the follow up investigation?"

"That's correct. I've been moved out of the field and into the cyber crimes division."

"They're going to show some damning lists here, Agent Starling. Not only the dress. A set of Hermes luggage. One suitcase, empty, found in the Krendler weekend house. A long list of garments, suitable for both travel and the tropics, were ordered along with the dress. Some were found in the house at the time, but the rest wasn't discovered until recently."

Starling stared at her blankly as Russell continued. "The missing suitcase and toiletries bag, along with more clothing for a woman of your size, were found in the trunk of his wrecked car. In his own bags, an ID for a man with his photograph under the name of Karl Varner and another, with your picture, under the name of Marie Varner."

"They can't be thinking-"

"You were due to be in Georgia within a day of his accident in Florida, correct?" Russell had the oddest feeling that she was the investigating officer and Starling was the suspect. "Taking your first vacation since joining the Bureau?"

"Yes, but...why haven't they asked me about this? Why you, but not my own team?" Clarice's brow creased. "I'd been planning that river rafting trip for a year. Doctor Lecter being in Florida was a coincidence; a lot of illegal entry comes through that state."

Russell watched Clarice's shock and dismay. "The doctor is...concerned that you'll be sacrificed in this prosecution and I must say, I share his concern. If you need help-"

Starling rose abruptly. "It appears you have no more questions for me today, Ms. Russell. I should go."

Shirley hurried around her cluttered desk to stop the other woman. "You don't understand. I want to help. I can understand your surprise, even fear, realizing he was after you again. But surely, you see his value for study and don't want to see him executed."

Starling's voice quavered as she said, "I'm not afraid of him."

Russell didn't believe her for a moment. She saw the tears clinging to her pale eyelashes. She squeezed the younger woman's elbow and her own soft hand felt nothing but strong tendon. "Honey, he's locked up tighter than a drum. There's no way he's ever getting out again. You have nothing to worry about."

"I have to get back to work," murmured Starling. "You have my office number if you think of any questions for me before my deposition."

The agent turned the doorknob but stopped when Russell asked, "Would you say Lecter's a suicide risk?"

"What has he said?"

"That he has nothing to live for. You know these sociopaths. When cornered, they'll kill themselves. Perhaps he feels truly cornered this time."

"Does he have an opportunity?"

Russell shrugged. "I don't know how closely they're watching him. They allowed Dahmer to be beaten to death like a dog. You can't tell me that wasn't on purpose." Starling looked indignant. "He's got clothes, a blanket, so he's got a noose. What do you think?"

"He's very...creative," Starling said. "And he won't tolerate confinement again, not after ten years of freedom."

"That's my concern." Russell waited a beat and said, "But he is worried about your personal safety. I don't know how he thinks he can effect that situation, but at least it's giving him something to cling to."

The young woman gave a watery chuckle. "What a pair we make. They'd probably love the doctor to save them the cost of a trial. And the Bureau starts every day hoping I've eaten my Glock in the night, instead of showing up and punching the clock."

"You haven't considered-"

"Doctor Lecter and I share certain qualities, Ms. Russell," Starling said. "Perverse obstinateness is one of them." This time she did open the door and slipped away without a goodbye.

The attorney said to the empty office, "Damn, I hope so," as she leaned back on her desk, weary.

~end Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

Russell came into Starling's deposition puzzled and wary. They were treating the agent like a hostile witness, holding it in an impressive office in the Fairfax county courthouse. Branson Scott, the lead prosecutor himself, would be doing the questioning, giving Russell some comfort. They went way back to a dirt road in Polk County. She was glad that she hadn't married him, considering what a pissant he'd become, but her intimate knowledge of his mental workings had helped her on more than one occasion. And this time, she knew she'd need all the help she could get.

Only slightly taller than her, even with lifts, Scott smothered Russell in a hug, trying to put her off balance. She hugged him back, lightly grasping his butt. He immediately released her, and she winked at him. He introduced a lanky young man with ambitious eyes as his assistant, George Hansen, then said, "And this is Colleen Matsui, Shirley, she's an attorney with the FBI."

Shirley shook the outstretched hand of the slight woman. "And why are you here, if I may ask?"

Matsui exchanged a glance with Scott. "A federal agent will be questioned today."

"So you're here to represent her," Shirley said.

"Not exactly. I'm looking after the Bureau's interests and naturally, those are Agent Starling's."

"That's comforting," came from the doorway, announcing the arrival of the first witness, Clarice Starling. She appeared even more exhausted than the day Shirley met her. Scott offered everyone seating, Russell at a far corner of the table so that she had to crane her neck the entire time. Clarice was sworn in, and they began.

Scott said, "I want to establish a timeline, if possible." Starling nodded in agreement, pulling out a Dayplanner. He surprised her by saying, "Do you remember a Robert Miggs, Agent Starling?"

She answered a bit too quickly. "Yes, sir, he was confined with Doctor Lecter at the Baltimore asylum."

"And he's dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know the circumstances of his death?"

Russell didn't, but had a feeling this was the beginning of Scott's case against Lecter, and to an extent, Starling. The agent replied, "He committed suicide."

"How? Wasn't it a secure facility?"

"I believe he swallowed his tongue."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"He was mentally ill."

"Had you had any interaction with him, while visiting Doctor Lecter?"

Starling was quiet. Scott prompted her and she said, irritated, "I assume you're referring to the fact that he threw ejaculate onto my face."

The prosecutor didn't answer directly but asked, "And how did Doctor Lecter respond?"

"He called me back to his cell and apologized for Miggs."

"You'd characterize his response as an apology?"

"Yes, he said Miggs was rude. He deplores rudeness."

"Would you describe him as agitated? Had he been yelling, for example?"

"He had to yell to call me back, sir. All the prisoners were hepped up, makin' noise-"

"But when you returned, was he calm, did he talk to you in a calm tone?"

"This was over ten years ago. It's hard to recall. You seem to have a witness with a better memory than me," she finished tartly.

"I would imagine even a brief encounter with the doctor would be very memorable," said Scott. "After all, didn't you retrieve copies of secretly taped conversations between the two of you from a former asylum orderly, Barney Matthews?"

"In the course of my last investigation, yes, I did. To jog my memory." Russell admired the way the young woman slithered on the line, but knew Scott too well to assume he'd let it drop.

"So Doctor Lecter was very angry at Miggs. Did he refer to Miggs' death during a later conversation?"

"Yes."

"Would you take his comments at that time to suggest he'd killed Miggs in retaliation for his act against you?"

"No, sir, he made no such direct statement."

"And you didn't make that leap yourself."

"No, sir. Neither my superior, Jack Crawford, nor I, saw the incident in that way."

"But others did. There's a statement to that effect in the police report for Miggs' death. That Doctor Chilton believed the prisoner was driven to the act by Lecter for what he'd done to you."

"Chilton had his own opinions. The doctor enjoys sadistic sport. Perhaps he required entertainment that evening."

"How did the subject of Miggs's death come up in your conversation with the doctor?"

Russell could see that Scott already knew the answer and her concern grew.

Starling stewed for a moment. "Doctor Lecter had been asking me about Jack Crawford. If I thought Mr. Crawford wanted me sexually. He got explicit. To shut him off, I said that sounded like the sort of trash Miggs would talk. He said, not anymore."

Russell looked down to her notepad and noticed she'd written: 'Lec willing to kill for her-10 minutes knew her.' She scratched violently through the words.

Having gotten the responses he needed, Scott started down a new road, arriving at: "Fred Chilton met with Lecter before they went to Memphis. Spilled the beans about the set-up by you and Jack Crawford. Embellished a bit, from the sound of it. Inferred you were cuckolding the doctor with Crawford, maybe would be willing to give Chilton himself a chance."

"Where did you hear about this? And Miggs...you must have your hands on Barney. Don't trust him. He won't sell you the entire package."

"Been ripped off by Barney?" Hansen asked from his spot behind Scott's left elbow.

Starling shrugged. "Barney's a nice guy, but Barney's a survivor. He'll do what he has to do."

Quelling his junior with a glance, Scott returned to his questions: "Cryptic comments aren't necessary, Agent Starling. Did Fred Chilton make sexual overtures towards you?"

"He was patronizing and unprofessional. But I assumed he did that with many women. He had that style."

"Do you know Mr. Chilton's fate?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have any theories?"

The young woman hedged. "It's assumed that Doctor Lecter killed him. He disappeared while in protective custody."

"Anything else gives you that impression?"

"In our last conversation-Doctor Lecter called me during a reception after graduation-he said, I'm having an old friend for dinner. Chilton went missing that afternoon."

Russell covered a laugh with a cough and muttered, "Excuse me," when everyone looked to her.

Scott plowed on: "In your statement, you said that you believed Paul Krendler had a role in Verger's capture of Lecter and that's why Lecter targeted him."

"Yes." Starling seemed ready to say something more but stopped herself.

"How could Lecter have known that?"

"He knows many things. He could have broken into his home, searched his papers, I really don't know."

"But you believed this yourself?" A suggestion hung unsaid, but Clarice refused to step into the trap.

"Yes," she said. "I'm certain of it. Paul had political aspirations; this was well known. Mason Verger had supported politicians before. Paul sent me to Verger on what was a set-up. Verger claimed to have evidence about Lecter's location that he knew wasn't valid."

"What did Mr. Verger hope to gain by having you go to his home?"

"I think he wanted to look me over." Hansen barely contained his sneer that said, _she thinks she's so hot._

She cocked an eyebrow at him and slowly, as one speaks to a child, said, "He needed to evaluate my value as bait, in my opinion. Although he was using Paul Krendler, I doubt someone of his position got successful by believing toadies."

"Excuse me?" came from Matsui.

"Paul Krendler was a mouthpiece, not an investigator. He had no training for, or knowledge of, profiling. In one breath, he would suggest Doctor Lecter was a homosexual and unspoken, that I was a lesbian, and in another, with that obviously fake postcard, that the doctor was 'a nut with a crush,' and again, unspoken, that I reciprocated these feelings. The two do not add up."

"Which part did he have wrong?" Scott asked, but she didn't reply before Colleen Matsui cut in with, "Testing hasn't disproved that Doctor Lecter sent that postcard."

"Earlier, along with his letter, Doctor Lecter had sent me a $150 nine ounce container of hand cream, specially prepared for my body chemistry," Starling said. "He would not send me an open note on a $2 postcard. The nibs for his pens cost more than that."

Scott grinned at how much Clarice showed him without intention. "You know his tastes pretty well then, eh?" he said.

"That is-was my job," she said.

"Did you have any direct proof of this supposed collusion between Paul Krendler and Mason Verger?"

Her brow wrinkled. "I was concentrating on other matters during the investigation. It was simply a detail I kept reserved." She looked to Matsui. "I'm not privy to any follow-up investigation." The FBI attorney stared back, unblinking.

It sunk in for Russell, and she sensed for Starling as well, that there had been no follow-up investigation of Krendler, leaving them up a shit creek.

They took a short break that Russell desperately needed after drinking four cups of coffee. Then Scott had Starling start recounting the events of the last days before Krendler's death.

"Doctor Lecter came into my house at night-I'd fallen asleep in a chair, in the living room."

Scott said, "How did you know?"

"In the morning, I woke to the phone ringing, immediately saw things out of place-"

"Such as?" Russell knew Scott had hoped Starling would say 'jism on my coffee table,' when he looked peeved at her actual comment: "I saw that he'd cut out a newspaper picture of me, laid it over the face of a model in a magazine."

Frankly, Russell found that more disturbing. Clarice continued, "He was on the phone; instructed me to get my guns and get in my car-"

"He told you to get your guns?"

Starling was becoming frustrated with the constant interruptions. "No, he told me I could bring the guns if I wanted to, but reminded me I'd be breaking the law," she said.

"Big of him," Matsui said dryly.

"He instructed me to drive to Union Station. Once there, I searched for him. I could tell from the background noise when he was close, but never spotted him. Instead, I saw that someone else was following us. Someone less skilled but dangerous. They turned out to be the men who would abduct the doctor."

"That's when you discovered the shoes he left you?" Scott asked.

"Yes."

"What was the significance?"

"They were a gift."

"Obviously, Agent Starling, but why shoes? Why not...panties?"

Russell grunted in protest but Starling answered anyway. "It's sort of a joke with us, I guess." Russell wasn't happy at all by use of words like 'us' but could do nothing to stop the young woman's automatic replies. "The first time we met, he criticized my shoes. I suppose he thought I still needed help in that area."

The men found this noteworthy and scratched away at their pads.

Starling was saying, "He had led me around to find the shoes, but ended the conversation. I suppose he'd lost interest in the game," and Russell remembered something. The news channels had been replaying the footage from the Union Station mall security camera that had first aired after Krendler's death. This time accompanied by commentary from 'experts' suggesting the two had been engaging in some sexual game of cat and mouse.

Starling, standing by the merry-go-round, intent on the cell phone conversation. The horses whirling past, children laughing. A man's hand coming out, and ever so lightly brushing her hair. What would have happened that day if Verger's thugs hadn't captured him? Russell shivered.

"What did you do after Lecter was captured?" Scott said.

"I was ordered to head home; let the troopers go check Verger's house."

"But you didn't."

"No, I did not. I knew that was a snipe hunt."

"You are aware you broke both procedure and the law by pursuing Lecter?" Matsui asked.

"Yes, Ma'am. But I had an opportunity the proper authorities did not." Starling sipped water and finally Scott asked her what she meant.

She fixed her solemn gaze on him. "Verger probably didn't give me another thought; I'd served my purpose. He'd underestimated me; that happens often in the field-it's natural for men, of course-and I use it to my advantage. The suspect looks away from the woman to the man; gives me a perfect opportunity to kick and break his kneecap or a get off a kill shot through the ribs."

Hansen cleared his throat and then muttered, "Nothing," when Scott glanced to him.

Watching Starling's matter of fact manner, Russell suddenly remembered seeing that killers on death row and surgeons shared the same brain scans: one group focused their need for stimulation on saving lives while the other let it explode out harmfully.

Starling shook her head as if trying to dislodge something. When asked why, she said, "When I got home...after everything, Paul's voice was on my machine, admonishing me not to go to Verger's. It was strange."

Without commenting on that statement, Scott led her through the Lecter rescue from the Verger estate quickly, then got to them to Krendler's house.

Starling was saying, "I made my way down the stairs, hearing voices, not sure who it was, what was happening...discovered my handcuffs and gun by a disconnected phone, fixed the phone, called for help..." Scott let her ramble, silencing Hansen's attempted protest with a wave of his hand. "I found the doctor in the dining room with Krendler tied to a chair and his skull already cut open..."

"Had you armed yourself?" Scott asked quietly.

"I'd picked up a snowglobe." Clarice met his judging eyes, knowing how ridiculous that sounded.

"Not your gun?"

"No, sir. I didn't know what was happening. I see now, it was hard for me to make judgments; the drugs made my head...unclear."

"Or perhaps you were frightened. It's all right to admit fear in this situation, Clarice," he said with patronizing warmth. Russell expected him to pat the agent's hand.

"No, sir," the young woman said. "If anything, that was my error. I'm not afraid of Doctor Lecter and it made me sloppy at that moment. It hadn't occurred to me that he may have gotten someone-Paul." She shook her head. "I have no idea what he was doing with Paul."

Matsui said, "How can you not be afraid, Agent Starling?" her own face showing fear for a man she'd never met.

"He told me he wouldn't kill me. I believe him."

Scott flipped through his papers. "Yes, in your original statement about his phone call in '90, you said he told you that you needn't fear him; the world's a more interesting place with you in it."

"Correct," she said. "But-" She shook her head again in frustration. "This is going to sound stupid."

"Oh, no," Scott said. "I'm sure not."

Russell finally spoke up. "Agent Starling, I must urge you to seek legal representation at this time. And not her," she said, nodding to Matsui.

"No, it's fine. I was only going to say, I don't fear anything. I mean that. Oddly, I've only noticed this recently." Clarice met everyone's skeptical gazes with her own clear eyes.

She spoke with painful care, making Russell writhe in embarrassment for her.

"I haven't felt fear since I shot Jame Gumb. I was in the dark, blind, petrified. So scared, I'd pissed myself. If I'd had any food in me, I'd probably have shit. I could barely hold my gun up. But I had to go on, I had to. And I knew he was out there-then I heard him cock his pistol but mine was already cocked and I had that one second to kill him first. And I did. I fired and fired and fired, even though my first shot killed him. He got one shot off, deafened me for weeks, burnt my cheek and ear with gunpowder. I was one second and one inch from death and I've never been scared again." She dropped into silence.

Russell watched the contempt of the men in the room. How dare Starling be alive? They were much more comfortable with the concept of a pretty woman, her pale skin battered to purple, her vagina torn, lying on a steel slab. A live, unshaken survivor repulsed them. She asked, "What do you feel in these situations, if not fear?" cutting through the thick hate in the air.

Starling seemed grateful that someone took her seriously. "Alertness. I feel very alert."

She grinned and it was a frightening sight. The smile slipped away. "But maybe if I could feel fear like a normal person, I would have run from that house, and without an audience, the doctor wouldn't have finished Paul off. Instead I just walked into the room to see what was going on."

Then, in short, simple detail, she told them how the doctor fed Paul Krendler his own brain. From there, they entered the kitchen, with Starling pressed to the refrigerator by Lecter's weight.

She recounted, "He said, 'I came halfway around the world to see you run, now let me run.'"

"Do you think he was planning on chasing you; hunt you for sport?" Scott asked.

"No. When I'd been jogging a few days before, I felt him there-"

"And you didn't report this immediately?"

She shook her head in frustration. "I didn't know it was him, specifically. I felt someone following, caught glimpses of a figure, but never saw him. It's a jogging trail. I thought I was just spooked after watching him kill Pazzi on that video. But as soon as he said that, I knew it had been him."

Scott pressed. "But don't you think that suspicion would have been worth reporting?"

Her jaw set, mule-strong. "I get enough flack for being a woman, sir. I don't need to be running to my superiors every time I get a creepy feeling."

"Even when you're the obsession of a serial killer who's resurfaced?"

"I didn't-don't see myself as that. So the answer would be no."

Scott got around to asking her why she'd refused to have the rape kit administered at the hospital.

"I knew that I hadn't been sexually assaulted."

Hansen butted in: "So sure, Agent Starling?"

"I knew," she repeated. "There was no point in having the test done."

"You don't believe Doctor Lecter is capable of such acts?" said Scott.

"That's a consideration. He has not sexually attacked anyone before."

Colleen Matsui said, "That we know of," only earning an eyelid twitch from Starling.

Scott continued with his oily insinuations. "Surely that should have been a concern for you, Agent Starling. The doctor had shown attraction towards you...You were alone...Drugged...Your clothes gone..."

Shirley cut in to say, "Goodness, Scotty, are you getting a little hot and bothered?"

"That was unwarranted, Ms. Russell," he said.

"Your suggestions are unwarranted, Mr. Scott," she shot back.

"He was in my home earlier, alone with me," Clarice said, "if rape was the intent, he could have done it then. As for this time, as I said, if he'd done anything to me, I have no memory of it and there was no physical evidence. The rape kit would only give the Tattler one more thing to buy from Evidence." Matsui flushed an ugly red color at that comment. "They bagged my panties, Mr. Scott. Perhaps you can have those tested, if you're so darned curious."

"He'd put underwear on you?" Scott asked, cruel. "From the photographs of that dress, it would appear to be only panties, right? No bra?" All the men grinned but the FBI's attorney had the grace to look ashamed.

"Branson, I swear to Jesus," Russell fumed.

"Pardon me," he said with his best courtly gentleman tone. "Let me move on. Did you keep the dress? It was lovely on you."

"Jesus Christ!" yelled Russell.

Scott did move on then, signaling Starling to continue: "He said, Would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?" A deadly silence fell over the room. Russell sucked on her lower lip, worried, but Starling kept her head up, defiant.

Scott asked, silky, "You've never felt this particular comment was worth sharing before?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"That wasn't in your report."

"It had nothing to do with Krendler's murder or Lecter's escape. No, I did not. It was merely a passing comment. You've asked me to repeat everything he said that night, I am."

"A passing comment, Agent Starling?!" Scott huffed. "My God, he professes love, gives you a way to stop him-"

"He did no such thing, Mr. Scott. He was trying to manipulate me, just as an abusive husband tells his wife that he'd stop beating her if only she loved him enough. These were his choices, not mine, or anything I could do. No, it was a test. If I'd been weak again, as I'd been begging for Krendler's life, he would have killed me just as easily as he finished off Paul. My rejection was the correct response. The one that he showed his admiration for."

Russell contained her chuckle of relief as Scott grunted in frustration. They were home free-

"How did he show that admiration?" Scott asked.

Confident, Starling tossed off, "Well, he had to have the last word, as usual, so he kissed me."

"Did you kiss him back?"

"No, Mr. Scott, I did not. I used the distraction to handcuff him."

Russell grinned, imagining the doctor's face at that moment.

"His response?" Scott said, cold in defeat.

"He said something about it being interesting; demanded the key. I refused." Starling's face went blank. The agent may not feel fear, but she didn't like to revisit these dark events. "He picked up a cleaver and threatened to cut off my hand."

"And you looked him down again, right?" Scott asked, sneering.

"Yes, sir. He asked where I wanted him to make the cut. I didn't answer, and then he told me it was really going to hurt. But he cut off his own thumb instead, put it in a plastic bag with ice from an ice bucket, said 'Bye' and walked out, calm," she said, slightly breathless from her speed.

Scott reviewed his notes, then asked, "Why do you think he cut off his thumb after threatening to sever your hand?"

"I have no idea, sir. I had looked away. I didn't know it was his thumb until the cuff didn't go slack. He had to pull his remaining fingers through-"

"You had looked away?" Scott had gone snake-still, his voice gentle.

The bottom dropped out of Russell's stomach. The confidence washed away like a retreating tide from Starling's face. "Yes, sir," she whispered.

"The woman who feels no fear was going to give Lecter the satisfaction to see you turn away?"

Starling's eyes were large and wet. She remained mute. Scott said, "Or was it because you knew-were certain-he was going to cut off his own hand, Agent Starling? That you could not bear to watch him do that?"

All the air sucked from the room. Starling could barely gasp, "Yes, sir."

Scott's pen scratched at the paper with an orgasmic screech. Not looking up, he said, "Thank you for your time, Agent Starling. Your witness, Shirley."

"Let's take another break," Russell said, breathless.

"No," Starling said. "Let's continue. I have to get back to work."

Russell shrugged and kept it simple. "Do you believe, trained in forensic psychology as you are, that Doctor Hannibal Lecter is mentally ill?"

When Clarice said, "I'm uncertain," the attorney just wanted to throw her hands in the air.

"What are you certain of?" she asked.

"That he is very dangerous. That he acts against many with no consideration or pity. That he has deep contempt for most. And an intense love for certain aspects of life. That he has knowledge to share."

"Do you believe he deserves the death penalty?"

"Deserve? Probably. But so do I, for that matter. I've taken a great number of lives-"

"Good God, Agent Starling," Matsui said, "how can you even equate the two?"

"According to the Ten Commandments, that's how. But back to the question.

"His death would not return a single victim to life or give anyone true peace. I know how much confinement harms him; it would be the greater punishment than death. He feels nothing but curiosity towards his own death, I think. And if his knowledge of the criminal mind could save even one life, it's worth him living."

"Thank you, Agent Starling," Russell said, still defeated.

The attorneys gathered outside the office after Starling had left.

"Her last lay is taking a dirt nap at Arlington Cemetery, and according to our sources, that was a coon's age ago," Scott said.

"And?" Russell asked, aggressive.

"A woman gets lonely. Here's a woman who likes a thrill, from the sound of it." Russell ground her teeth. That's all Scott got out of Starling's story of facing down death?

Before she could respond, the next witness, Hannibal Lecter's former psychiatrist orderly, Barney Matthews, joined them. He loomed over the smaller white men and they shifted back on their heels. His quiet voice replied to greetings and then he introduced his attorney. Shirley knew Clyde Winger from his late-night TV ads. His large mouth full of teeth gleamed at them. Russell didn't like the way Scott and Winger exchanged knowing glances.

Barney sat with his chair pushed away from the table as though to allow himself an easier escape. He explained his connection to the murderous doctor.

Scott started his questions on the now familiar track: "How would you describe the relationship between Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling?"

The large man shifted back as though Scott had farted. "What do you mean?"

"You observed them together."

"They weren't together; there was a barrier between them."

"Literal man, eh, Barney?"

The large man looked puzzled.

"So Agent Starling only saw him in his cell? They were never allowed to meet outside confinement?"

"Goodness, no. I thought-" Barney stopped.

"Yes," Scott said, leaning closer, imagining he'd get some dirt.

"I didn't think much of the way Agent Starling was used in the whole thing, Mr. Scott. They staked her out like a lamb in the forest-" Barney frowned as though trying to place his reference, and his face cleared when he remembered.

"Why was that wrong, Barney?"

"They thought the doctor would get turned on by a young woman, I guess."

Scott said, "Did it work?" then tempered his smarmy comment by changing it to: "Did he develop special feelings for Clarice Starling?"

"He liked her. I don't know if that makes his feelings special."

"Liked her? As a woman?"

"She is a woman, so how could he avoid liking her as a woman?" Barney said slowly.

Russell was enjoying this immensely.

Scott took a deep breath. "Did he speak about women with you during his stay in the asylum?"

"No. He wasn't that sort. Most of the prisoners were obsessed with sex because they couldn't have it. He never talked about sex, I mean, other than to needle folks. His own sex life, he didn't mention."

Russell made a note of Barney's comments. This could lead to something-if she could find a therapist willing to ask Lecter about his sexual urges.

"Never? You had twenty-four hour access to him-"

"Are you asking me if he jerked off?" Barney asked.

Russell made a point of scratching her pen loudly on the notepad.

When no one spoke, Barney answered his own question. "I never witnessed anything of that sort. Eight years, never. If he did it, it was damn quiet and clean. Not like most of the patients, the messes we had to clean up-"

Scott said, "Okay, that's fine-"

"But I'm not saying he didn't do it, but he wasn't going to give us the satisfaction of knowing about it," Barney continued.

The prosecutor cut him off. "Yes, all right." Barney's great ox-eyes blinked slowly and he waited patiently for the next question.

"What sort of things did he say about Agent Starling?"

"He enjoyed her company. He sketched her. But he never talked sexually about her."

"But do you think he desired her?"

"That's a hard question since I don't know what desire means for him. She was-is, damn pretty, looks like she'd be fun once you got a couple of drinks in her, she listens-that's always good in a woman. But those aren't qualities I'd guess Doctor Lecter's looking for in a lady friend.

"Only time he came close to suggesting such a thing, he told her he thought it would be quite something to know her in private life. That's not like asking her out on a date or anything, though." Exhausted by his long speech, he lapsed into silence.

"How does Agent Starling feel towards Doctor Lecter?"

"I wouldn't know-"

"You spoke with her in this past year, didn't you, Barney?"

"Yes," he said, shifting uneasily.

"Did she make specific comments about the doctor?" Scott asked.

"Yes."

Scott gave him a moment, then pushed. "And they were-"

"I asked her if she thought about him. She said she did. Every day."

"Even after ten years?" Scott said.

"I think about him every day," Barney replied. "He's a memorable person. I learned a lot from him."

Scott didn't want to hear about Barney's relationship with the doctor but the big man was on a roll. "He recommended books, explained things I didn't understand. After some reading, I came to see their relationship as a tragic romance-"

Hansen sneered. "Tragic? More like twisted."

"Tragic with a big 'T'," Barney explained. "In the classical literature sense. With the Courtly Ideal of love, the man and woman never got together, never had sex. It was all about yearning and wanting but never gettin' any. I'd say that pretty much sums them up."

"Just like Romeo and Juliet, only not," said Hansen. Scott hushed him, wanting Barney to continue in this vein.

"They're kept separate, not by tragic elements, but their own personalities...which I suppose is their tragic element. She'll never forget what he is; he'll never change."

Russell thought, _isn't that the problem with every relationship? _ Then again, Barney wasn't married.

"They're doomed," he was saying, "sometimes it depresses me."

Russell had to ask, "Why?"

Barney smiled. "They're nice folks. I like them. It'd be good to see them happy. They're not particularly happy people."

Russell asked a few questions about Barney's thin credentials and his professional opinion of Lecter. He seemed much more comfortable with her.

When finished, Russell was drained. She couldn't rise from her chair, or even push her notes into her briefcase. Dimly, she was aware of Winger and Scott conferring in the corner. When she turned to watch, Scott took the other attorney's arm and pulled him from the room.

Russell barely made it through her front door. She let her things drop on the floor and collapsed on the couch. Abe had the TV on. They watched the raging from one of the murdered Memphis police officers' brother. "If _bleeping_ that bleep is all that _bleeper_ needs to stop killing, I'll hold her down and let him go at her."

"Oh, fuck," Russell said. "The leaks are getting home before I do."

~end Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

The call came at three in the afternoon. Be at the Department of Justice building in D.C. within an hour; your client needs your representation.

Russell shook her head to clear it and hollered, "What the fuck?"

Scott hardly contained his glee. "The Feds want to question him on some new evidence they've received. You want to be there, right?"

She concentrated on the important part. "They've taken him out of his lock-up? Are they fuckin' crazy?"

"Really, my dear, why must you be so profane?" Russell sputtered and Scott continued. "They've got that nice little chair for him; they're completely confident nothing will happen. Besides the room will be crawling with armed men...and one woman."

"What?"

"Agent Starling's been called too. See you there," he said, hanging up.

The conference room was filled with men, some in uniforms, others in dark suits. Lecter, in his chair, had been placed in the center of the room. All the men avoided him as though he were an overflowing toilet.

Shirley hurried up, needing to share the previous unproductive day. "Dammit, you were right, Doctor. She didn't lie for herself." When his face darkened, she was sorry she'd said anything.

Scott came up behind her, but didn't even look at the doctor. "We're still waiting for Agent Starling."

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Lecter said.

Russell enjoyed presented her client to his prosecutor. Scott tipped his nose up as if something smelled. Somehow, Shirley knew this was the greatest offense he could have given Lecter. The doctor focused on Scott's shoes, and she wondered if he was going to comment on the lifts. He didn't need to; the flick of his upper lip said it for him.

Scott spun on his thick heel and tossed over his shoulder, "Let's get started. He added, "You wait on a woman, you'll be waiting 'til you die," and Lecter's hiss crawled up Russell's spine.

Just then, Starling did arrive, and Russell knew they were in trouble from the start.

Moisture from the rush had washed the younger woman's makeup down to reveal her freckled face and glowing golden neck. She was pissed, and that added to the rosy sheen. Every time Russell had met her, she'd worn low-heeled sensible shoes, but today she'd been in front of yet another review board for her comments during her deposition. She had dressed for the part in slim skirt and high heels. Agent Starling was obviously a women not accustomed to wearing either. She did nothing to adapt her gait, which was the long, flat-footed movement of an athlete. When done atop four-inch Cuban heels, the effect was of a model on the catwalk, her baneful expression completing the illusion.

There's no way to stop once a stride is established on such footwear, so she was forced to sashay to the offered chair. Settling on the seat, she tossed her head as a pretty pony flicks its forelock when you reach out to stroke its nose. All the men leaned forward in their chairs slightly, trying to catch a better view to the moist valley revealed by her partially unbuttoned blouse or her sleek legs as she crossed them with the _snick_ of a vacuum sealed door.

All but Lecter, strapped down firmly in his heavy chair, center stage like a king on his throne. He leaned back and exhaled.

"This meeting came as a surprise, gentlemen. It's unfortunate that I wasn't informed earlier-" Starling paused and Lecter blinked once. "I wouldn't have been so tardy. It won't happen again."

Scott said, "We're sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Agent Starling," but his voice held no sincerity.

"It's you who may be inconvenienced by bringing Doctor Lecter out of his cell."

Starling looked at Lecter for the first time, and the doctor mouthed, "Good afternoon, Clarice." She couldn't help it; she glanced down to his left hand. Playfully, he wiggled his reattached thumb at her and winked.

Enraged, she leapt up. "That goddamn shit-smilin' Barney!" Her furious eyes nailed the group of Feds in the corner. "I tol' you! Check Barney!"

Behind her, Lecter gleefully parroted, "I tol' you!"

She ignored him. "Did you? Graves, you, I tol' you to check on Barney Matthews, that he was only one Lecter trusted and the only one who could get him medical attention."

Mumbles came from the cluster of suits. "You lying sack of shit. I called you up, and you said, 'it's taken care of,'" she growled.

Exhausted by her outburst, she flung herself, ever graceful, back onto the shuddering folding chair. Lecter's affectionate gaze stroked her downcast head. Shirley was reminded of Abe's answer when she'd asked him how he could possibly find a stumpy hillbilly woman attractive: "I enjoy watching you express yourself."

Starling said, low, "And now you're bringing Lecter out here, to show what big dicks you all got,;how you've caged the monster."

The doctor raised an outraged eyebrow.

"Every precaution has been taken-" came from Scott.

The officer in charge of a cluster of state troopers, Cartwright, pointed out: "This chair's got him secure. Got it from the Department of Defense. They use it for terrorism questionings in foreign parts. We got nothing to worry about."

"As much as I'm enjoying your sales pitch," Starling said with a curl of her lip, "Can we get started on this-whatever this is." She had an expression of grim defeat, like that of a nun standing before a parochial school sexual education class.

"First things first," Cartwright said. "Are you armed, Agent Starling?" He had to have seen the bulge at her blazer's waist during her outburst.

"Why?" sounded like an odd reply to Russell, but Starling was clearly in a combative mood.

"As you yourself just pointed out, we're in the presence of a dangerous man."

"All the more reason I should be armed."

Cartwright took a swaggering step towards her, but called a junior officer forward. "Jackson, take possession of Agent Starling's weapons until this is over, would ya?"

The young officer, his shaved head glistening blue-black under the fluorescent lights, nervously said, "Ma'am, if you could give me your sidearm."

She flicked open her blazer, and smoothly yanked her .45 out. Russell sensed alertness in all men again, this time the tension came from seeing a truly great weapon. It swallowed light, rather than reflected it, glowing black like her mother's best iron skillet. Starling discharged the clip and dropped it into the outstretched hand of the young man. She popped a bullet from the chamber and caught it effortlessly as it danced in the air.

"A bullet in the chamber and you didn't have the safety on, Starling," Cartwright said. "Didn't your trainer teach you that's dangerous?"

She didn't reply and lay the gun alongside its bullets across Jackson's wide palm. He stuttered, "Thank you, Ma'am."

"Is that all?" Cartwright said, suggesting he knew it wasn't.

She slid her skirt up, ripped open the Velcro holding a knife sheath to her thigh so quickly the men hardly got to ogle. Snagging the weapon before it fell, she said, "That's it."

"Expecting trouble, Agent Starling?" Scott asked, his normally ruddy face having turned green-yellow.

"Always."

Russell had been watching Lecter during her performance and wonder how a man could stare at a woman as she bent and twisted, her snug clothes moving against restless muscles, for that long, that intently, without giving the impression of leering.

A voice came from the cluster of silent suits across the table. "She normally carries another gun. A 9 mm tucked in somewhere."

"Pretty heavily armed for a basement techie, aren't you, Agent Starling?" Cartwright said.

She held her arms out wide and said, "Do you want to do a pat-down?" to Jackson. He gulped and shook his head no.

Russell hauled herself to her feet, starting to protest, but Scott put a stop to all this. "Siddown, everyone, let's get this going." He glanced at Cartwright. "You satisfied?"

"Sure am. I think she's properly disarmed," Cartwright said with a Mamma's boy grin.

Starling scooted her chair closer to the table, and folded her long legs under it, gripping the leg with her ankles like she would a tree in a hurricane. "Now that the floor show's over, what is this all about?"

Cartwright jerked his head towards a black TV screen. "It's here. I doubt you two saw the camera. You were busy."

Russell had been wondering if it was a great effort for Starling to keep from looking at Lecter but she found voice to say, "I'm going to file a motion to suppress-"

Cartwright waved his short-fingered hand. "Now, now, counselor, no need to get your panties in a twist-"

Starling hissed.

"Sorry ladies, no offense."

Lecter's tongue flitted out as his gaze bored into Cartwright. Starling looked at the doctor, her expression grave. His eyes switched to the TV that had flickered to life with a blue screen.

The officer didn't notice any of this exchange. "We simply wish both survivors of the...Incident...At Verger's to fill in some blanks of a video that has turned up."

Russell opened my mouth but before she could say it, he said, "And you can advise your client to keep quiet or not. But this is part of an investigation and he's a witness."

The man's plump cheeks expanded as he grinned. "Hell, he's a victim." And with a dramatic flourish, he clicked on the VCR.

On the screen, Doctor Lecter was wide-armed, fastened to a forklift, bound at the wrists and ankles in a perverse crucifix stance. A muzzle-like mask covered the lower half of his head. His bare feet glowed white on the screen. Russell said, "Agent Starling, I must again recommend that you seek counsel at this time-"

The young woman had turned to watch, and her rough dialect gave her words a hard edge. "It's all right, Ms. Russell. I'll just keep my mouth shut if som'pum doesn't seem right."

Russell's fingers flew through her files until she found Starling's statement about her discovery of Lecter at Verger's estate. It read with the usual clean, concise verbiage of a highly trained government employee until she drove onto the property. Then the details became few and sparse. Starling claimed that her injury and subsequent medication had affected her memory. When Russell had discussed this with Starling, the agent had said, 'I only remember emotions, and that doesn't belong in a report.'

"The audio doesn't pick up everything, you see," Scott said. "We need to fill in those blanks."

"To what purpose, Mr. Scott?" said Starling.

"A number of crimes took place during this period, Agent Starling. They must be catalogued and charges filed if necessary."

"Against whom?" she asked next. "Krendler, who was in cohoots with Verger? Oh, that's right, he's dead. Verger's pig breeder's bones? The conveniently missing Cordell?" Her slim hand was rock steady as she sipped water from a glass left in front of her on the table.

"Me?" she asked next. The drink's ice tickled in the quiet room.

Russell broke in. "Exactly my point-"

"Any number of crimes," Scott repeated. "The swine got into this country somehow. Laws were broken-"

Lecter chuckled, a warm sound in the overly cooled room. Starling traced her glass's rim, collecting the condensation. The doctor said, "Please show us the film, Mr. Scott. I'm terribly interested."

The agent's gaze shifted to him for only the third time since entering the room. His low voice whispered, "Like watching our home movies."

The VCR whirred. The camera had focused on Lecter, but took a wide enough angle to capture the entire pen where he was suspended. Two large men in soiled coveralls labored with heavy electrical cords. Lecter watched with palatable curiosity. From somewhere off camera came the sound of low porcine squealing. All three men paid the sound no mind, but the hair rose on the back of Russell's neck. She'd visited an uncle's pig farm as a child and knew what the creatures were capable of.

The room had fallen completely silent. The men no longer shifted in their chairs, too small for their wide government-issue asses. On the screen, Lecter's head turned slightly, his gaze focusing to the wall of the enclosure. Everyone in the room started when his voice murmured from behind them, "She's...coming."

Scott quickly motioned for Cartwright to stop the film and took over the remote. "What did you say, Doctor?"

"I was giving you a bit of a preview," Lecter replied casually.

"No, Doctor, you were narrating. On there-" Scott backed the film up a few frames so they could watch Lecter's head turn again. "You react. Did you know she was coming?"

"Oh, yes, Agent Starling and I staged this entire scenario so that we might kill Mason Verger," said Lecter, droll. "You have to admit, Clarice being shot was a dramatic flourish, and we pulled off the entire performance beautifully." He clapped his hand on the chair arm.

Scott was not a man who gave up. "Did you hear her, perhaps see she through the slats?"

As the doctor said, "No, but Agent Starling is very persistent," he tried to lift his shoulders in a shrug. "I had hoped she would arrive." Shocked murmurings ran around the room at that statement.

"Actualization through visualization?" Russell suggested, hoping to delay whatever was going to happen next on the screen. Lecter rewarded her with his lovely smile and she hated herself for smiling back.

"Exactly," he said. "Let's see, where were we? Oh, yes, Agent Starling was about to burst in, having ridden to my rescue on her black charger, her trusty, rusty Mustang."

Starling seethed, but kept her eyes locked on the TV.

"That's one thing I intended to do while free, Clarice, drive a Mustang. I prefer something with better suspension, but you make it appear so fun-" He drew the word 'fun' out indecently- "I wanted to give it a try."

Another agent called from the back, "Okay, okay, let's pick this thing up," seeing that Lecter had taken over the procedure.

As Scott started the film again, Starling stared at the screen as though she could walk into the scene. And then she was there. In the monochrome, her hair was washed gray and her white, white arms held the big black gun on the men.

One of the farmhands said something.

"Whadda he say?" grunted Cartwright and retrieved the remote to stop the film.

"Signora bella," Lecter said helpfully. "Beautiful woman." Starling's jaw clenched as he continued, "That's an Italian for you. He notes the lovely lady before the gun. To his detriment."

The film started, and with two rapid shots from the agent, the men fell. She quickly handcuffed them as they lay in the dirt.

Lecter, courtly, continued to narrate, "Now I say good evening, but our vigilant agent is not so polite and tells me to shut up." Starling approached the confined man and began to cut at his bindings. "Always direct, she tells me if I touch her once loose, she'll shoot me." Having freed one hand, Starling was true to her threat, training her gun on him as she moved to the other arm. "She said, 'Do right and you'll live through this.'"

He chuckled and Cartwright paused the film to allow the doctor to collect himself. Lecter said to Clarice, "That still amuses me."

The young woman carefully brushed her hair back behind her ear and Russell wondered if it was just her imagination, or was she flipping him off?

The VCR started again. "I asked her for the knife to speed things up," and few shocked murmurs accompanied Starling's action of handing him the weapon.

But then the doctor said, "Please stop the film," and Cartwright complied. "I must have been distracted by Agent Starling's arrival. I made an error. I should have pointed out the man in the loft immediately." His gaze moved over the agent's averted face. "I apologize, Clarice. It is my fault you were shot. I know it does not matter to you but I wish you would exercise more caution. While I cleaned your body, I counted six wound scars. Whatever have you been up to these past ten years?

"Perhaps you touch those marks in the darkness, as another woman would caress her clitoris, but the rending of your flesh disturbs me. Following this course, you will end up dying in the welfare ward as your Daddy did. You are much too precious for such a fate."

During his entire discourse, Starling didn't face him. Russell thought; she looked him in the eye when he threatens to cut off her hand, but turns coward when he expresses his devotion?

No one stopped him, so he kept talking. "Why, Clarice? Why do you remain in that fetid fold you call the FBI? I consider you one of the great modern martyrs, but even this cannot give you perverse joy."

She finally spoke: "Where was I supposed to go?"

"Could it be?" he whispered. "My Bodecia...Is still just that little girl lost with her lamb?"

"His bodice?" Hansen asked, looking up from his notes.

"Can we get this finished sometime today?" Russell asked.

The remote clicked and the Starling on screen heard the doctor's warning. She spun with a hammer thrower's grace, searching the loft for the third man. Bright flashes accompanied their shots, and she fell just as the doctor freed himself.

Starling lay twisted in the dirt, and even as she lost consciousness, she scratched frantically for her gun. Lecter was off the forklift and deftly snagged her weapon, and pop, it was in his pocket. Even muted by the film's poor quality, the sound of the thrashing beasts got louder.

Russell felt terror for the couple, though they sat whole and healthy beside her. The animals swarmed in as the doctor scooped the young woman up. They surrounded him but showed no interest. One of the officers gagged as the animals fell upon the handcuffed men but Russell focused only on Lecter's calm, straight body and the way Clarice's head lolled towards his shoulder, finding comfort.

They could hear some barking voice, but not make out the words. Lecter helped: "It's Mason, thinking he's going to get a dinner show. Well, in a way, he does. I believe he actually suggested that pansy doctor should go down into the loft, get the dropped weapon and engage in some gun battle with me. Ridiculous, but I suppose when you're used to having insane orders followed, one more can't hurt."

The camera only captured the lower half of Cordell's legs and Verger's wheelchair. Lecter continued, "So they're having a heated debate about this, all quite annoying, and I suggest Cordell dump Verger in." Some garbled words passed. "I offer to take credit for Mason's death, and-" A body flew into the pen and was engulfed by the swine. "Cordell wisely takes me up on it." He chuckled as one of the federal agent jumped up and hurried from the room.

Russell herself was becoming lightheaded from the terrible visions frozen on the VCR. She could barely say, "Doctor Lecter-"

"Shouldn't you have stopped me from admitting that earlier?" he chided glibly.

"Actually, I think you cleared yourself of a crime."

"Goodness, you're right." Mimicking Scott's own insincere honey tones, he told the prosecutor, "So sorry."

"You urged that man-"

"Dammit, Scott," Russell said. "If I tol' you to jump outa a window, would you?"

Too pissed off to care about how it looked, Scott sneered at Lecter. "If you're going to be so honest, why didn't you eat Verger yourself when you had the chance?" He put an unseemly suggestion into: "What was so special about that guy?"

Lecter said, "During my visit to his home, he pressed up against me with his pathetic erection, then masturbated before me. The thought of eating any part of his body would have given me unpleasant connotations."

Russell heard a snicker and with horror, realized it had come from Starling.

Returning his attention to Scott, the doctor said, "However, I must give Mason Verger credit. I assumed he would die from blood loss; a slow bleedout seemed fitting for him. But no, he lived on, somewhat worse for wear."

"Why'd you do it?" Hansen burst in, "some guy, coming to you for treatment, earns a death sentence?"

Obviously the young man hadn't read all the files, so Lecter reminded him gently, "I dislike those who hurt children."

Cartwright turned the video back on without being asked and Lecter carried Clarice from the pen. The TV flashed bright blue and they all blinked. "That's it," the officer said unnecessarily.

Scott still smarted. "And what was Paul Krendler's crime, Doctor? Had Clarice Starling told you he'd rubbed up against _her_ with his erection? And you had to do something about it, like you took care of Miggs and Chilton?"

Russell felt like she was watching her granddad firing his shotgun into the river to see if anything edible floated to the surface. "Let the record show that Mr. Scott has gone completely around the bend," she barked.

Before the prosecutor could make his retort, the doctor said, "If making sexually suggestive and lewd remarks about Agent Starling is a death sentence, one would note that you are walking on very thin ice, Mr. Scott."

The room fell into a frightened silence, then Lecter said, "But let us put this unpleasantness aside. I'll make a deal with you." Russell tried to protest but he told her, "You're fired," without even looking her way. "I'll plead guilty if Agent Starling isn't put on the stand. None of her statements can go into the public record."

Sweating, Scott made a recovery. "That can be taken under consideration-"

Everyone started talking at once.

From Clarice: "Doctor, stop right there; I can handle this-"

From the doctor: "Clarice, please remain silent."

From Russell: "Even if I'm fired, I can tell you, Scott's a lying sack of shit. Clarice would be put on the stand for the sentencing. There's no way you can keep her off. She witnessed the murder."

He heard that. "My deal is acceptance of death, but no trial, not even sentencing."

"It doesn't work that way; the judge decides the sentence," Russell explained but she got no further, because Lecter's face started to turn purple.

It took everyone a beat to realize what he was doing. He'd tested the chair carefully, and had discovered that he could induce the machine to choke him. The troopers swarmed forward, but no one dared touch him. Only confused orders bounced back and forth.

Starling forced her way through the circle of men. "Get the hell out of my way." She grabbed Lecter's heavy head and held it up, opening his airway. "Dammit, Doctor, stop being an ass." She leaned in close and Russell fought the urge to cover her eyes as she did at the circus when the lion tamer put his head in the beast's mouth.

Starling searched his half-opened eyes for signs of consciousness. "Doctor, this is getting us nowhere," she said. Her hands moved close to his mouth. Russell flinched when Clarice's fingers brushed across his lips as she shook his head. Then the light came back to his eyes and the attorney held her breath in fear. Would he bite?

Their eyes met for just a moment and Russell knew the sexual energy she'd felt from the doctor was merely a toss off, a toy with which he amused himself. This was something different, and she hated that all the men smirked when they saw it.

Starling stepped back. "He's fine now."

Russell demanded that the questioning, such as it was, end for the day and Scott agreed. As she packed her briefcase with shaking hands, she knew he'd gotten what he wanted anyway. She took some comfort knowing he'd been conned by Barney and his fancy attorney; they'd obviously worked an immunity exchange for the video-how the nurse got that, she could only speculate-and now it turned out he'd sheltered Lecter.

Scott and his team headed out and she hurried after him in time to hear him chortle, "Well, that was fun," as the men clustered in the hall.

"How so?" Russell asked, barely containing her fury.

"Watching Lecter mentally fuck our lovely young agent fifteen different ways; you don't get to see that every day in our line of work."

Russell closed the gap between them. "So you find emotional rape entertaining-"

"Excuse me," Starling said quietly, and brushed through them to stride down the hall. The men watched her go with interest and Russell with despair.

"Is that how she saw it?" Scott said from behind Russell.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked, forcing her gaze back to him.

"When he was coming around, I saw him touch her bare stomach where her shirt rode up. If she shifted back an inch, he couldn't get to her. She didn't."

"Perhaps she realized it was an irrational concern. What was he going to do, scratch her?"

"He was touching her, Shirley. He wants to touch her-with his eyes, his voice, his fingers. And she let him."

"You set her up today. You're no better than a pimp."

"Sho' you right, Shirl. This ain't Polk County courthouse anymore, defending Elmer the drunk. You can't take the heat, honey-what would yo' Mamma say?"

"Fuck you, and the mule who's your sweetheart, Branson Helford Scott, that's what my Mamma would say." With that, she returned to her client.

The proper pale color had returned to the doctor's face and although he didn't move, his excitement hummed like bees' wings.

Russell pulled a chair close, but not too close. "Doctor, that didn't go well at all. Surely you can see that."

"She appears tired," he said, "don't you think?"

"Yes, Doctor." Shirley ran her hands through her untidy hair. "I've requested and have been denied, the right for you to appear in court out of this chair, not even in shackles. They have allowed you to wear a suit, however. Who knows, it may help."

"I don't think she's been eating properly," he said. "She needs fattening up-a proper meal, none of those fast food remnants I found under her car seats."

Shirley rose. "Doctor, I'll see you tomorrow." The troopers closed in but apparently distracted, her normally polite client did not say goodbye. She wondered if he was mentally flipping through his recipes, seeking just the right dish for Agent Starling.

Russell returned home to discover uproar. A reporter, posing as a pizza deliveryman, had gotten into the house, Casper not being one to ask questions when food was offered. Getting him out was the difficult part, since neither of her men was inclined to use violence. Shirley had no such qualms, and frog marched the man out the door, his money offers littering behind him with the napkins and cheese packets.

Abe gave his report: the press had been calling and ringing the doorbell all day. Unfortunately, none of the psychologists that Abe had contacted had agreed to testify, let alone interview Dr. Lecter.

"I dunno, Sugar, maybe I'm still under the cloud from Bush's election, but it seems as though our usual wells have run dry," he said. "This is a new America."

"Yes, the climate's changed, and none of these guys wants to be seen as excusing a serial killer," she mused. "But not even Schlock?"

"I didn't bother to call him," Abe said. "He's known as our pet witness. I can't think that will help the case."

As they dug into the pizza-Shirley wondered if she owed the reporter something now-her husband asked, "Anything new today?"

"Shit so deep, I shoulda brought a shovel," she said, sighing around her bite of pizza. "It was all bad."

She gave an outline of Scott's machinations. Abe laughed at the part where Lecter touched Starling. "Count on this Lecter to take the opportunity to cop a feel."

Casper took it all in with bright eyes. A smart boy, he examined the problem. "If they can prove he cares about this Clarice Starling, he's just a plain old murderer, right? Instead of a sociopathic killer who plays with bodies for kicks."

Working on another piece of pizza, his mother nodded. Casper asked, "Well, does he?"

"I dunno," she said glumly.

"Couldn't he just be a stalker, that 'nut with a crush'?" Abe suggested. "He could still be insane then. I mean, what's the attraction, you think?"

Ever practical, their son asked, "Is she hot?"

"I wouldn't call her that," Shirley said. "I know nothing about this guy, but I'm gonna say some ginger-haired, freckled, skinny, hillbilly girl wouldn't be his style."

"She's smart, right?" Casper said. "He's smart-"

"She's sort of somber, terse, even," Shirley said. "He seems more...Fun-loving, if that's the right term." She took a swig of beer. "No, decadent is a better word. She's definitely not."

Abe gave her a knowing grin. "Some guys like that schoolmarm thing, you know. She's all tied up in herself...What's it going to take to get a reaction-"

"She didn't flinch when he threatened to cut her hand off. I'm a bit scared to imagine what he'll do next to get that reaction." She got up and took her beer bottle over to the sofa, curling up in the broken down cushions.

But Lecter had found a way to make Clarice flinch-Shirley remembered the faint scar ringing his thumb. This was the problem. It would be easy to stand up there in court and paint the portrait of an older man, trapped for years in a dungeon, developing an obsession for a lovely young face that appeared out of that gloom-but she wouldn't be able to sell it. Her upward mobility in the law profession had stalled because she couldn't lie convincingly.

Shirley had been in love long enough to know the emotion, after the passage of time, had little to do with physical attraction or sexual prowess. It tied together with boring fiducial elements of trust, devotion and sacrifice, sounding more like a club motto than something electric. If she used that definition to examine Lecter's feelings towards Starling, she became uneasy. She'd seen the devotion first hand. Sacrifice? The scar appeared to her again.

She weighed his arrogance. He processed information very rapidly. Could he have formulated a plan to contact Barney in the time it took to swing the cleaver? Yes. But it was a gamble, and as much as he loved a risk, would it be worth the loss of a digit? It would have simply been easier to cut off her hand if he cared nothing for her.

And now he was trying with great determination to sacrifice his own life to save Starling's.

Trust. This was harder to quantify. Then she remembered the look they'd exchanged as he regained consciousness. The men in the room had enjoyed seeing that, but it hadn't been about desire. It had been more intimate; it had been the intimacy of trust.

Aloud, she said, "I'm fucked."

Casper snickered through his pizza. "You know, Mom, maybe you should try a different tactic."

She was desperate. "What you got?"

"I've seen this documentary on the National Geographic channel about food taboos in culture-totally cool. We have this thing against eating people, but really, does it matter when you're dead?" Shirley reflected; there's a bit of psychopath in every teenager.

Abe pointed out: "He had Mason Verger and Paul Krendler eat their own flesh. That's got an extra ick factor."

"Yeah, we've got this thing about being eaten, for sure. People, I mean. I wonder if the other animals just sort of expect it." Casper gulped down soda. "I saw another show, and a lot more people are killed by moose than by bears every year. But which one are we terrified of? The one that eats us."

"How is this going to help the case?"

"Prejudice against cannibals," her son said.

"I think we need to rethink paying for full cable," Shirley said.

Abe wasn't giving up. "Perhaps we can find an expert that will suggest Lecter has a mineral deficiency that leads him to eat human flesh."

"Yeah, I saw another show about people who're compelled to eat dirt-" Casper suggested.

"I really shouldn't be saying this, but there's holes in the insanity defense anyway," Abe said. "You know Karl, the guy who works at Wan's Drycleaning? He's a sociopath; I'm convinced. The stories he has, about seducing women and tossing them aside. If I were Wan, I'd check my books. Karl's completely without remorse or emotion. But he's only breaking hearts, ruining lives. Only if he decides to kill one of those poor women, then he gets tossed in jail. But shouldn't destruction be destruction? He's fully capable of murder; why are we waiting for him to do it?"

Russell wondered if Judge Marsh was a Southern Baptist, or better, Pentecostal. She knew they'd found the most conservative judge they could. Should she try suggesting Hannibal Lecter was the Devil? Surely the Devil had been in love before, but couldn't be held responsible for his actions. She didn't say these thoughts aloud. Her husband was an intellectual, a secular Jew; he couldn't comprehend this. But she'd been raised by a mother who saw little green demons sitting under her kitchen table. Mamma would have looked at the doctor and recognized him instantly.

Her head hurt. Suddenly, she felt close to tears. Abe noticed and said, "Baby, go to bed-"

She lashed out. "I've got tons of paperwork, I've got to look through old cases, and we've _got _to find a psychologist-"

Abe was before her, gathering her close. She let a few tears loose, knowing his nubby sweater would catch them.

"Honey, we can't win them all."

She knew he was right, but fought her way free from his grip nonetheless. "But we have to try."

She found her briefcase and snapped it open. She heard her son and husband whispering in the background but ignored them. She stared at a photograph of Starling from the Krendler murder scene. This time, she noticed the neat, precise stitches closing the agent's gunshot wound. Starling had sacrificed. She trusted the killer with her life. What was the depth of her devotion? Russell knew that would determine the outcome of this case.

~end Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

Harry, Abe and Shirley struggled through the throng of press and public gathered on the courthouse steps. Questions and threats whirled around them. Shirley didn't see the point of grandstanding statements to the press and had decided to avoid one now. The only person who needed to hear a statement from her was the judge.

They'd argued about this in the car. "This is the age of the court of public opinion," Harry had told her, but she held firm.

Besides, Branson Scott was saying enough for both of them. Through the crowd of journalists, Shirley could see the shine off the prosecutor's glossy hide.

The defense team of Torres the drug kingpin was coming up the stairs from the other direction and they were no shaggy-haired bunch of leftover liberals. They too stopped to speak with the press, creating a distraction. Lecter's attorneys scurried past, hardly noticed.

They stopped once they cleared security, waiting for Scott and his team.

"Should we check on Lecter?" Harry asked.

Shirley knew he burned with curiosity to see the man in the flesh. Before she could give him the chance, a sheriff's deputy approached them and said, "Folks, just wanted to let you know that your client's here and has been put in a secured room that's a holding cell. They'll bring him in when the court room's ready."

Scott came prancing up, his thick waistline puffed out, followed closely by his assistant Hansen. Before the lead prosecutor could give whatever bon-mot quivered on his lips, gunfire broke out somewhere in the building, booming through the halls.

"What the fuck?" probably wasn't what Scott had intended to say.

Abe drew Shirley to his side. The deputy quickly checked his radio. Various cops began running through the halls, popping in and out of doorways like gophers.

"What's going on?" Harry said.

The deputy replied, "I'm not sure but let's get you into this office." He herded all the lawyers into one room and closed the door firmly behind them.

Harry backed to the wall. "Why're we trusting these guys?"

"Shut up, you commie," snapped Scott, even as he began to sweat profusely.

Before the argument could continue, the deputy was back. "Calm down, folks. His voice was low and steady, but his eyes flickered like sped up film. "It looks like Torres' buddies have shown up, thinking they'd bust him out. They got nailed, and now they're trying to shoot their way out. They're up on the fourth floor. We've got SWAT teams coming in, so as long as you stay in here-I'm gonna put a guy on the door-you're going to be fine."

"You're leaving us?" Hansen whined, clutching at his sleeve.

The deputy showed his open disgust. "I tol' you, there's a guy on the door. I've got civilians pinned down upstairs." He was gone.

Special Agent Cartwright himself had escorted Lecter to the courthouse, along with three state troopers. Now they were all crammed into a tiny holding cell, made even smaller because no one wanted to stand close to the doctor. The officers listened to the back and forth of action on their walkie-talkies. Only their prisoner remained calm and disinterested.

Cartwright's walkie-talkie squawked, a garbled, high voice calling him.

_This is dispatch, do you copy?_

"Yeah," he said, tense.

_How many men have you got there?_

"Four."

_Bring 'em out; you're needed on the third floor. We need all the back-up we can muster on a hostage situation._

"I can't leave the prisoner alone, copy."

There was more crackling. _All right, three._

Cartwright looked at Lecter, almost napping in his restraints. "Can do. I'll leave one. Copy."

All three junior officers exchanged worried glances and Jackson slumped his shoulders when his superior told him he'd stay behind. "Don't open this door for anyone," he ordered the young man before hurrying away.

The trooper carefully locked the door and flipped the snap open on his holster. Lecter blinked as though waking.

"We meet again," he said.

"Don't say anything," Jackson replied.

"All righty." Lecter's eyelids drooped again and he barely mumbled, "She's...coming."

"What?" Jackson asked, but the doctor had fallen asleep.

"It's gonna be fine," Abe said in his best imitation Southern accent and Shirley adored him all over again.

She wanted to kiss him, badly, but knew better, lodged in this room with the prosecution. Yearning for any contact, she quickly reached up and brushed her fingertips along his lips, a gesture that could be assumed as wiping away some crumbs-and stopped.

Mental pictures flipped forward-

'She won't lie...'

Tears, caught on pale eyelashes. 'I'm not afraid of him.'

'It's you who may be inconvenienced by bringing Doctor Lecter out of his cell.'

A heavy head, cradled by thin, strong fingers...those fingers stroking his lips-

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Russell started hollering. The men already jumpy, began questioning her, but she had no time. She pushed her way to the door and pounded on it. "Guard! Guard!"

A nervous rookie deputy flung the door open. "What's wrong!?"

"She's breaking him out!" Russell babbled.

He looked at her as though she were deranged. "They're working on the Torres breakout now."

Russell shook her head in frustration. "No, no! Somehow, Starling's set this up! She's breaking Lecter out! You have to stop them!"

Jackson's walkie-talkie called him. "Yeah, Jackson here," he said into his shoulder.

_We have an EMT trapped back behind the firing line. Can she take refuge in there?_

"I dunno about that, I've got a murderer in here."

_There's firing going on, deputy. She's pinned down in your hall._

The young trooper looked at the reassuring chair holding the quiet man fast. "All right," he said.

The voice sounded satisfied. _Great. She's going to give two sharp knocks, then one more. Don't let anyone else in._

"Got it."

Jackson dared to lean close to his prisoner but he seemed almost catatonic. The rapping came on the door. The trooper cracked it slightly, his gun drawn. Once open, he could hear the splatter of distant gunfire. A female EMT, her face white and frightened under a dark cap, peered back.

"Thank you so much-please, please-" she babbled.

He turned, keeping an eye on Lecter. "Come in, but for God's sake, stay back from this man-" When he felt the prick at his buttock, he looked back, confused. He knew that woman; that was the pretty lady with the big gun-now the gun was in his face and his own pistol fell from his limp grasp.

Starling caught Jackson to ease his way to the floor. Flinging the door open, she yanked a gurney into the room.

Without looking at Lecter, she asked, "Does that thing have an easy way to turn off?" meaning the chair's mechanism.

"It's a code, but unfortunately, I haven't been able to discern it."

As she crouched behind the chair to check the device, he said, "I will admit, Clarice, I had been suffering some faint concern as the days slipped by. I would have hated our journey to end so mundanely with me strapped down, taking the needle, while you cried behind the two way glass."

"Who's saying I'd be crying?" she said, flipping her medic's case open to reveal a number of non-medical items. "Sorry about your frettin', but I'm still learning this breaking-out thing."

She rooted out a large pair of wire cutters from under three full gun clips. "I dunno know about this, Doctor, what do you think?" she asked, holding them up.

"Do it," he said.

She snipped a large cable leading from the motor to the body of the chair and although sparks flew, it went silent. She unclamped the first arm and let him finish as she dug in the case again.

"I've got the ambulance on the other side of the police lines. We're going to have to brave it through." She tossed out some bandages and a baggie full of stage blood. " Here. Let's dress you up as a facial gunshot victim."

Sniffing the contents of the bag, Lecter glanced down at the unconscious guard. "The real thing plays so much better," he suggested.

"Get up on the gurney," she said, ignoring his remark.

He vaulted into position and began slathering his face. She started to buckle him in. With blood streaming down his features, he said, "I'd really prefer you not do that. I've just gotten free."

"No, it has to be this way," she said, her expression grave and he felt a prick at his hip. He struggled, smearing the blood on her face as she pinned him back down, but lethargy overcame him quickly. She finished fastening the straps across his prone body.

She wiped her face clean, ignoring his quiet murmur: "Clarice...Clarice." His eyelids were the last part to relent, finally sliding shut over his pale eyes, blank as sun-struck windows. For only the second time in their acquaintance, Clarice Starling had truly surprised Hannibal Lecter.

The End, Continued in _Ring of Fire_


End file.
